The Final Problem
by Lestrudel S
Summary: This novel, like a lot of them, will be in third person. In a third person novel, you don't find out who the narrator is. You find out who the main character is- you find out the colour of their eyes, the smell of their presence, the way they take their tea in the morning. This isn't about me; it's about him. The glasses. What you do when you don't know.


Pathetic fallacy, I think, is a terrible writing technique. I shouldn't have to tell you that it was cold to express Sherlock's feelings of being completely stunted, I shouldn't have to tell you that it was a bleak Monday morning, when he arrived, alone, at the hospital, to explain why everything felt so bland to him. Because, really, he didn't like mercy killings. He thought they were bland, bleak, like November's skies. I should be able to profess this to you without mentioning that the weather on that day, when he finally took the case, reflected his feelings. But here we are, here I am, telling you in a very amateur way that it was cold, that Monday morning in mid November when Sherlock Holmes finally took the hospital case, and the sky was completely bland and bleak and characterless, and that the corridors in the hospital, somewhere in London- I can't remember where- smelled of antiseptic fluid and human misery. I suppose that it's my job as narrator of this story to tell you that his heels made that click-clack sound as he walked on what he wished were silent feet down that desolate corridor, one of the ones that smelled like antiseptic fluid and human misery, thinking that a hospital ward- a hospital, actually -ought to be bustling with endangered life, not harsh, dense, desolate silence. This is what he told me, and this is what I'm telling you now. About his last case. I am the one who's going to narrate his final problem; don't mistake that for my writing it, though. He didn't write it either though, I mean, you all know Sherlock Holmes- he isn't a man as pretentious as me, because, of course, he wouldn't tell you that the sky was bleak in the way that a November sky likes to be, he wouldn't mention the weather at all, because pathetic fallacy is a terrible writing technique. But you understand me. He gave me an outline, and I'm giving you a novel. This novel, like a lot of them, will be in third person. In a third person novel, you don't find out who the narrator is. You find out who the main character is- you find out the colour of their eyes, the smell of their presence, the way they take their tea in the morning. Well, maybe at the end of this story, I might tell you who I am. You might know me, if you follow John's blog. I'll give you a hint; I'm not John.

So anyway, loud feet that the walker wished were silent. At the end of the eerie and awkwardly, wrongly desolate hospital stood a man he knew, who ought to have broken the feeling of being alone but didn't. The man didn't see him at first, his head hadn't turned, and he didn't know that Sherlock was coming. He should have, he reflected; the murders had shifted in motive to something that would interest him. When Detective Inspector Lestrade's head finally turned, his expression was something between anticipation and relief.

"Please say you've changed your mind."

Sherlock probably smiled, I don't know. I'm just the narrator. I'll just type what sounds good and's in character, and you can be gullible and go along with it. All narrators are unreliable anyway. Ask your English teacher.

"Gavin, my good man- remind me, how long have we been friends?"

"Not long enough for you to remember my name, you bastard."

They both smiled, and then one of them- probably Lestrade -realized that they were at a crime scene, and that you can't smile at a crime scene; well, you can do anything you want at a crime scene, but you probably shouldn't smile. Or, you know, smell the victim, but that wouldn't stop Sherlock. Besides, he didn't smile much at anyway; yes, he was happy at a crime scene, but he was happy.

"These mercy killings, the- for want of a better word, victims -were old? Terminal?"

Lestrade nodded.

"This one, though, she was about as far from terminal as you can get, judging by the photos. Young, recently engaged; she had kittens, for God's sake. People with kittens are always happy."

At this point, Lestrade was probably wondering how Sherlock knew she had kittens. He didn't know how Sherlock _did _his thing, but he kind of knew _how _he did his thing; the reason he felt like an idiot after his deduction sprees was that the evidence he drew his conclusions from was always in plain sight, really, he just needed glasses. Sherlock was everyone's glasses. He saw the world in some amazing way, more clearly, as if it was blurred to everyone else. Thing is, though, everything was still blurred in this case. Maybe he had lost one of his lenses. Whichever way you pull it, that was why this was his final problem.

The question is this; what do you do when you lose your glasses? Do you buy a new pair, or do you keep looking for them?

Books, in case you didn't know, always have a purpose. I didn't write this, so it's not for me to determine, but I think I'm trying to tell his story not just because he wanted me to, but because I need to answer the question; what do you do when you don't know?


End file.
